


felled by you (held by you)

by theMightyPen



Series: nothing else but the other [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, does not fear death. Or, at least, he does not fear his own.





	felled by you (held by you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Prompt: "I know it hurts." 
> 
> Title from Hozier's excellent "NFWMB". 
> 
> This features book!Theodred, who is in his 40s. So please don't message me crying "underage!" about movie!Theodred.

* * *

 

The rain is coming down in torrential waves, bitingly cold even through the layers of his armor and clothes. And this is considered Spring, in Rohan!

Mercifully, the battle has been over for a few hours. Less fortunate is the constant rain, which has made it difficult to determine who is slumped over from exhaustion and who is in more dire need of help. He may be the highest ranking Gondorian noble present, but he is their captain, and he will leave no man behind if he can help it.

“Captain Boromir!” A familiar voice calls.

“Grimbold,” he answers. “What news?”

The Rohirric commander is pale, worry etched plainly into the lines of his weathered face. “I know you have your own men to attend to, but our healer was gravely injured last week and we had to leave him behind in Snowbourne. There is--we need--”

“Peace, Grimbold,” Boromir interrupts. “We are allies, are we not? Gondor will not deny any man of Rohan aid if he needs it.”

“Thank Bema for that,” the older man says. “It is the Prince.”

The bitter cold of the rain abruptly pales in comparison at the ice that slides into his stomach.

_Theodred!_

But he is the Captain of the White Tower, Gondor’s greatest defender, his father’s pride. He cannot react any differently now than he would for any other ally.

“Istuiben!” Boromir calls.

The healer’s head emerges from a nearby tent. “My lord?”

“Prince Theodred has need of you,” he says, willing his voice to remain as commanding, as powerful, as _even_ as usual. “Can you be spared?”

“For the Prince? Aye,” Istuiben answers.

It takes a few minutes, during which the rain slows, before he reappears, his kit in hand. Grimbold has been pacing nervously in the interim, which is doing nothing for Boromir’s nerves. As soon as Istuiben has joined them, they’re off, in the direction of Rohan’s encampment. Boromir’s poor page--just a lad, really, with no business being here at all--trails along after them.

“Thranor,” Boromir says, catching the boy’s shoulder as he tries to follow Grimbold and Istuiben into the tent. “Go back to my tent. Get yourself dry.”

“I will not leave you, my lord,” he says, stubbornly. “Lord Denethor told me not to.”

Boromir squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Curses his father’s damnable pride.

“I am not likely to be attacked in Prince Theodred’s tent,” he says gently.

As if to prove the opposite, there is a pained shout from inside. The boy’s eyes widen and he grips the pommel of his sword, as he can protect Boromir from the scene that awaits him within.

_Poor lad_ , Boromir thinks, reminded painfully of Faramir and all of his kindness, _no one can keep me from this_.

“Go on, now,” he orders. “There are some things boys should not have to see. Not even very brave ones.”

He waits until Thranor has been met by one of his other guards before turning back to face the tent. He steels himself, just for a moment, before going inside. Surely even he is allowed a moment, just one, of weakness.

 

* * *

 

The sight that greets him is one he has seen before. Bloodied rags, the worried faces of soldiers and friends, a body in a bed.

_It is not the same_ , a voice in his head whispers, _it is not the same at_ **_all_** _._

Of course it isn't. How can it be, when it is _Theodred_ who blinks up at him with pained eyes? Theodred, who he has never seen so pale. Theodred, who very well could be _dying_ , out here in the muck, so far from home?

“Come to gloat?” Theodred asks, voice pinched with pain. “I am sure the mighty Boromir would never be so foolish as to get himself shot by a Uruk’s arrow.”

Worry is replaced with irritation. He would try to tease, try to lessen the agony he must be in. For his men. For Boromir.

“The mighty Boromir is of half a mind to throttle the Crown Prince of the Mark for acting as if he is fine. I _know_ it hurts,” Boromir growls. He turns his attention to Istuiben. “How bad?”

“Not the worst I have seen,” the healer confirms. “Though getting the arrow back out is only half the battle. There is a chance it could be poisoned, my lord.”

Panic flares, icy cold again, in Boromir’s gut. But Istuiben is no green youth. Theodred is in the best hands he possibly can be, at the moment.

“What do you require?”

“Boiled water, if we can get it. And men with strong stomachs. It’s likely I’ll have to cauterize the wound.”

From the corner of his eye, Boromir can see any remaining color drain from Theodred’s face. He has a powerful fear of fire--has since he was a child, and had witnessed an entire village burnt by Dunlendings--but there is no other option to staunch bleeding as quickly.

Grimbold barks something in Rohirric at the soldiers, who hurry out of the tent with purpose. Boromir drifts closer to where Theodred rests. His eyes are closed now, head leaned back against the pillows of his makeshift bed. The arrow protrudes from the front of his shoulder, conspicuous against the otherwise pale skin. They’d clearly had to cut his armor off of him. It had been a gift from his father, years ago now, and Boromir knows the loss must pain him.

Theodred’s eyes flutter open and he manages a half-hearted smile. “Don’t fret so, _mðdleóf_ ,” he says, words slurring with pain and weariness, “m’not so fragile as all that.”

Boromir can feel heat creeping up the back of his neck--Theodred would usually _never_ be so careless as to use that particular nickname where someone might hear, but neither Grimbold nor Istuiben show any sign of having heard anything.

“Fragile, no,” he agrees, settling down on the available stool beside the cot, “foolish, yes. Valar, Theodred, what were you thinking?”

“Thought th’bastard was aimin’ at you and that flashy Gondorian armor of yours,” Theodred slurs. “Youd’ve done th’same.”

Boromir pinches the bridge of his nose, torn between a wave a damnably powerful fondness and _extreme_ exasperation. “That ‘flashy Gondorian armor’ of mine would have _protected_ me from that arrow, you fool.”

Theodred grins. “Can’t have it doin’ m’job for me, Boromir.”

Elbereth, what is he supposed to say to that? He loses his opportunity, anyways, because the have returned, cauldrons of boiling water on hand. Istuiben approaches, looking cautious.

“Here, Prince,” he says, holding out a wooden spoon. “You may want this.”

Theodred grimaces, all earlier mirth forgotten, and bites down. The rest of the night is a blur for him, from what he says in the days after.

It is not so for Boromir. It may, in fact, be one of the longest nights of his life.

_Sweet Elbereth, please_ , he thinks, when Theodred screams at the feeling of the iron on his skin,  _I cannot lose him, I cannot--_

 

* * *

 

He jolts awake the next morning. Theodred’s hand is as tight in his now as it had been hours previously, when they’d had to seal the arrow-wound with the fire-hot piece of metal. The noise he’d made had been beyond pain, beyond shock. Boromir had wanted to storm out into the wilderness and find the Uruk who had done this, who had caused Theodred such pain--

But his hand had held him fast. As he suspects it always would.

Theodred’s face is mercifully slack with sleep, with none of last night’s pain or fear to be found. There are strands of grey, now, threaded through the dark blonde of his hair. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose. Boromir knows his own face carries the same marks of the passage of time. They are neither of them the young, foolish boys that had met in Dol Amroth, all those years ago.

Theodred shifts in his sleep. Murmurs something familiar, something fond.

_Time changes so many things_ , Boromir thinks, unable to keep himself from dragging his thumb over Theodred’s, _and so little, all at once_.

“We thought it best not to disturb you,” murmurs Istuiben, startling him out of his peaceful--and horribly ill-timed--show of affection. “No one wanted to risk your wrath by being the one to pry you from the Prince’s side.”

Boromir lifts his head to meet the older man’s knowing gaze. Shame spikes in his gut, followed by guilt, and swiftly after, anger. Elbereth, he is so _tired_ of feeling this way, of hiding something that is so important to him, that feels so natural--

"Peace, Boromir,” Istuiben says, clearly reading his expression. “There’s not a man among us, Gondorian or Rohir, who would deny either of you your happiness. Nor would we deny you your privacy.”

His meaning is clear: that they have not been as secretive as Boromir has always thought, and that their men will not breathe a word of this. To anyone, but in particular not to either of their fathers. The gratitude he feels is nigh overwhelming, but--

“I--we cannot ask you to lie--”

Istuiben gives him a stern look. “You have not asked. We have chosen, all on our own, to protect you, as you have so often shielded us.”

“Istuiben--”

The older man sighs, though his expression softens into fondness. “For once in your life, Captain, let someone else be noble.”

“Here, here,” breathes Theodred, who was apparently not as asleep as he had appeared. “It’s a damned nuisance, always trying to live up to you being so self-sacrificing--”

“Says the man who got himself shot on my behalf,” Boromir grumbles. The tone rings false, as he is too relieved to see Theodred awake to properly feign irritation. “How do you feel?”

Theodred gives him a lopsided smile that, as ever, makes Boromir’s heart turnover in his chest. “With you beside me? Never better.”

 

* * *

 

(“He thought we didn’t know?” Grimbold asks, expression torn between disbelief and amusement. “Bema above, they are the most unsubtle--the most _obvious_ \--”

“Yes, well,” Istuiben chuckles. “I think it best if we do not tell them that, Commander.”)

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Niamh for prompting this (sorry I am a fail whale at writing angst but hey, I tried!)
> 
> mðdleóf: dear of heart/beloved


End file.
